A Sweet and Sad Romance
by Femme aux Mille Visages
Summary: "Francis Bonnefoy finds himself very much alone, staring into a glass of wine at half past two in the morning, wondering if all those taunts, if all those snide remarks, if all those barely concealed innuendos were worth the empty bed, the empty bottles, and his very empty heart."


Francis Bonnefoy watched Alfred and Arthur with amusement. They really were a darling couple, for all their bickering-currently, Alfred was holding Arthur's copy of Othello far above the latter's head, laughing at the shorter man's distress. But Alfred had made his lover a cup of tea just before the morning meeting, milk and no sugar, and Arthur had faced the humiliation of the McDonald's drive through to make his boyfriend happy, and together they seemed oddly right. Maybe it was their shared love for science fiction, overly caffeinated beverages, and bizarre fashion trends. And he watched Alfred hand over the treasured manuscript, lean down and press a kiss to Arthur's mouth. Arthur blushed, true, but he was smiling into Al's mouth, and he twined their fingers together, and the two walked out hand in hand.

Francis Bonnefoy watched them a year later, standing on a platform in a hotel ballroom exchanging rings. Earlier that day, the formal and permanent alliance of the United States of America and the United Kingdom had been announced to the world at large. But here, in this room, it was only nations that watched them exchange vows. They weren't really sure how to go about it, so they settled for using the vows of their own respective countries. Alfred swore his fealty to the Kingdom of Great Britain, and Arthur his to the United States, and they presented each other with their rings. Arthur had given Alfred a ring of diamonds, rubies, and sapphires; flashy, patriotic, and completely Alfred. He could see the trepidation in Arthur's face, no doubt at the monstrosity of a ring that Alfred was about to present him with-and never did. The ring he pulled out was a classic, simple band of white gold, but all along the inside so were the words "Keep Calm and I Love You." Very sappy, _oui, _but touching all the same. And Francis smiled, and congratulated them, and gave them their present. He endured the speeches from England's relatives, ranging from Scotland's rather bawdy jests to New Zeland's heartfelt well wishes. Even the Republic of Ireland (although everyone just thinks of her and her twin brother as "North" and "South" respectively) drags herself to the wedding, and for a whole day everyone remembers who dear Mathieu is. It is one of the happiest marriages he has ever witnessed, and he excuses himself early before he gets properly drunk and ruins the whole thing for them all.

Francis Bonnefoy is thirteen and currently fighting with Arthur Kirkland. Both nations have had a rivalry since their conception; they are far too dissimilar, or perhaps far too alike, for them to ever get along. He watches Arthur, dressed in the fashions of the time, brightly colored tunic and soft, full breeches, swing his sword towards him in a deadly flash of silver, and he brings his own up to meet it, fast as lightning. Both nations are dripping with sweat under the white hot sunlight that glints off steel and brow alike. Francis feels his heart race with the thrill of the duel; he rarely feels so alive as when he is fighting, unless he has wooed his way into the bed of a pretty girl or an even prettier boy. He looks at his foe with fresh eyes and is surprised to find him startlingly attractive; the acne of the growing nation has all but disappeared, the pageboy haircut of Arthur's silky blonde hair has been grown out to touch his shoulders in a style not unlike France's own, and although his eyebrows are as unruly as ever, beneath him his eyes are bright and intense and burning like green fire. It is this moment of distraction that nearly loses him the battle; England swings his sword in one final arc, and had Francis not met his blade with equal force he might have been disarmed. Instead both swords go flying off into some bushes nearby, and England topples over on top of Francis. For a moment they lie like that, beneath the summer sun, pushed flesh against the grass. England's breath is hot, and he smells of sweat and blood and roasted pig, but it is strangely erotic all the same. The seconds pass, and Arthur stands, hands Francis his sword, and excuses himself. The two nations are at an official state of stalemate.

Francis Bonnefoy has only ever been in love twice.

Francis Bonnefoy has only ever said "Je t'aime" and meant it once.

Francis Bonnefoy watches the only man he was ever happy with, for all of their fighting, for all of their loathing, marry Alfred.

Francis Bonnefoy finds himself very much alone, staring into a glass of wine at half past two in the morning, wondering if all those taunts, if all those snide remarks, if all those barely concealed innuendos were worth the empty bed, the empty bottles, and his very empty heart.


End file.
